


The Game ~ Episode Four

by Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy



Series: The Game [5]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-12 05:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20991506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy/pseuds/Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy
Summary: Note: This time, it gets real. There's sexual violation and brutality .. not who you'd expect. And there's death ... exactly who you'd expect.A New Episode may possibly come every Friday now    ... *whistles*The Game is a stylish and mature soap opera based on BBC Sherlock in an alternate version of Earth.Sherlock re-imagined.It centers on the City of London, now completely under Jim Moriarty’s control, and a City-State all on its own.A new and dangerous Nation.Sherlock Holmes is his prisoner and lover, and they reside in a very highly fortified penthouse that is more fortress than flat.Sebastian Moran is the angry and jilted would be suitor of Moriarty, and John Watson struggles to rally a Resistance movement to free the City, and his closest friend.Mycroft and Lestrade are held in a secret location, kept alive solely to keep Sherlock under control.There are very strong subjects contained herein, torture, murder, non con, drug use, brutality, suicide, mental issues of all varieties, etc.General Trigger warnings for all these always apply!Extreme Material ~ You Have Been Warned





	The Game ~ Episode Four

The days melted into one.

Oh, it was all perfectly grand to have Sebastian back, the presence of his thick and well muscled body next to Jim's every night for three weeks straight, all while Sherlock suffered. Jim knowing he listened to them fuck, listened to Jim's screams in the night, Sherlock alone, Sherlock the victim and the fool, but hadn't he always been, really?

Yet as always, Jim became bored. Boredom was the great bane of his every day and every night and all the endless, countless, pitiless moments that filled them. ADHD might have fingers pointed at it as some of the root cause of the vicious hunger, but there was so much worse going on at all times, it rather quickly simply became lost in the shuffle. So things being what they were, one night at precisely 3 AM - not night, technically, but the Devil's hour, the mockery of Christ's hour on the cross - Jim Moriarty wandered down and out onto the street, a draconic monster under the facade of just another common man. So small, not weak but still vulnerable, size mattered when you came down to it. Jim worked out, at times, focusing on his arms and chest, the chest had never really responded but his arms were magnificent, powerful. But the rest of him was neglected health wise, strength wise. He kicked when angry but those kicks held little danger. If you got his arms behind his back, or broke one, he was not in a good place as far as self defence. There was, of course, Baby. The Beretta that held all that might within its own small body. Shining and savage, as cold and mean souled as her Master. Jim felt safe, as he slowly walked the streets, humming some nonsensical and badly remembered hymn from Catholic school days.

Not everyone knew who he was on sight. And some knew, did not care, and still others might like the challenge. He was, as most gunslingers of the Wild West with any real notoriety at all, a constant comment. A thing, there, right there, to be defeated and crushed, made to squeal and then displayed, because : Then in the completion of this, you yourself gained some real status. So it was a toss up whether being recognized or failing to be, presented the most real and serious threat and danger. Sherlock had descended into a drug-hell now that left him looking like a terribly deranged vagrant. Moran was oblivious. Great intelligence was not his forte, nor was seeing what was right there. Almost a month of Sherlock-torture and Sebastian-fucking, and Moriarty needed something else. Anything else, but either of them.  
  
And so he wandered.

The beginning was a comedy: a leg stretched out in the darkness, and the ensuing fall to the cement, the curses, the surprises, the laughter of young men. Jim had skinned his hands, and he was very angry at this. Shocked. Who would _dare_?!

"Hey, runt, got any cash on you?"  
  
_Runt._  
  
Oh, fuck no, they were already sentenced to death as far as Moriarty was concerned, this would add torture to the deal. He fumbled to try to get to Baby as well as the phone, but that's when a sharp toed boot caught him in the mouth. Teeth, blood and spit went flying, and James Moriarty wondered if this was a dream, because it certainly could not possibly really be happening. Not ...not now. This was the stuff of the old days. The bad old days. Days he had long consigned to non-reality, a phantom past that was merely mis-remembered, a teenage James beaten often and soundly for the crime of being small and fragile, and then later for the much worse crime of being -not only incredibly intelligent but fucking _pretty_ too- the boy the girls wanted, the boy the other boys wanted to either hurt or own, or both. Memories that went back before thirteen were cut off and dead, those were days he'd never allow himself to ever remember, because the harmers were the ones supposed to be the helpers, the satans were the saviours, and it was too much. But he had immediate problems, things had changed catastrophically in two minutes of time.

Jim was about to remember what being a victim was like, something he'd long ago swore was never in his future again. He had been wrong, and as he was dragged back into the sordid stench-kissed alley, the man who believed he owned the world and all within it realized that they were not only ripping his clothes from his body - and they were so fucking expensive - they were groping him, feeling, squeezing, hurting, raping their way with their fingers, molesting, everything ugly, all things pain and sadness and tears. He began to fight, struggling, strong in that moment, but then his arm was forced back, and then the other. Face down, shrieking banshee like into the uncaring darkness. "I can give you money. Stop. I'm a rich man. Stop.. " The word please never left his lips, begging was something he no longer understood how to do, those days were over and he'd never permit such a thing. But when the tire iron hit his tail bone, Jim Moriarty cried. Did not cry out, but cried. Cried like a frightened little boy who has suddenly entered the big bad world and wants to go home.

The shock of the coccyx being so brutally struck was well past anything he had ever imagined was even possible to experience. Literal shock waves roared.

The offer of money was meaningless to young thugs who had already taken his silver edged leather wallet. To young men high on very evil drugs and living in a world that meant nothing anymore. No, they did not recognize him. That was the only mercy he got.

He did not beg. Even as sopping tears of anguish rolled down his cheeks as they'd done so many times before. Even as the madness that rotted out his beautiful mind flared and screeched in hideous hell-cries. Coming alive now in a whole new way. Why they left him alive, he would never know, but alive they did leave him as they finished on him, one by one, gang rape something these lads often performed throughout their busy weeks of robbery and ruin. Did it matter? Maybe once ... not anymore. Not in this world. Rape was just another way to pass the time. Little did they know they had just violated a God, or what would come as a result.

_//darknessfallen//_

_//murdermostfoul,moncapitan//_

Jim swam and drowned in the blacksea.

_Crycrycry. CrybabyCrybaby._  
  
Sherlock O God O God.

_I wonder ... what she's serving for tea today, Molly Bee. Molly Hooper Pooper Scooper. Honey Honey you were a good fuck as good as a woman is capable of oh Shit I gave that one away_

Someone was touching him, and Jim choked on pain as his eyes opened, the void-dark seething with fear and hurt.

_Him._

_The only Him that ever had really existed at all._

Looking for all the world like a mad bum out of a Depression era movie, down-on-his-luck and no-one-to-fuck, the hobo faced once handsome man stared down at the little demon. Love and hate existed in perfect union now, for Sherlock. He scratched thoughtfully into his scraggly half bearded chin. A light went on somewhere, in the back of his wounded brain, and he made a strange, ill sound. "Jim. Jim. Oh. Christ. Jim." Bending down to pick him up and then the obligatory cradling in the arms, Sherlock Holmes staggered back, made it to the top of the Devil's Tower, as it was informally known. Sherlock Holmes was not 'on'. He was off, perhaps for good now. But as he lay Moriarty down so gently, his face twisted in grief and pity. _Ah, he thought to himself nastily, there is a human in there still! Good for you, old man, good for you!_

It wasn't as if he were really all that sane now, himself, now. 

When Moran came out and saw the dire and pathetic scene on the couch, his eyes went wide, blue shock-spheres cut into a stunned visage. He must have spoken words, but Sherlock was past all that now. Moran was hated past all words, past all thought. Sherlock's jealousy boiled and scalded the edges of his existence now, this man, this _Goddamned_ fucking man, Moran, Moron ... Jim belonged to Sherlock and Sherlock had taken the Cross up so many times, played the martyr in death's own agony for him. Jim was his. Son of a whore, motherfucking bitter son of a bitch, Jim was his, by God, by the Devil himself! And so then, now, little Jim stared up at Sherlock. Eyes shrouded and his manner hushed. But he took Sherlock's hand, as Sherlock worked on him, till the other man needed that hand free too. After all, he was cleaning up a disaster area. They did not speak of it. But gentle, so gentle. Sherlock's face was set, stony and enraged. They had hurt his Jim. Jim was out of control and Jim was a danger to all thinking and feeling beings but he needed to be brought low, captured. Restrained. Helped, if there was such a thing for him even possible. Not this. No! Never this! Moran brought disinfectant and bandages and kept his eyes low and his voice quiet. Sherlock Holmes had never had this particular look in his eyes, as he did right now. Moran did not desert the sunken ship, but nor would he throw himself to this shark, either.

Jim did not speak for two days.  
  
When he did, it was as if none of this had ever happened. Not a word of it, on it. But when his eyes met Sebastian's, they said it all: _You allowed this. They hurt me, and you allowed it. You failed me._

And of course, the addendum.

_He saved me._

**Nine days later.**

The punishment was not swift but it was almost beautiful in its horror.

The Purge began. Everyone in a radius of the Devil's Tower not his Own was wiped out. The air was hot with endless gunfire for days, nights, on end. When Molly Hooper had finished her carefully squirreled away cup of yogurt (the last one), and looked over at some vague sound, Sebastian Moran blew her face off with a military war rifle. Literally blew her face off. The event was captured by Seb's phone, and then a selfie posed standing on her with one boot, looking all the world like the proud Great White Hunter. After all, Jim needed to be appeased. This ought to help. Moran knew it would bring a wide smile to the still bruised face, a glimmer to the two fading black eyes.

  
And Molly was, after all, no one important.

**Epilogue.**

John Watson could not remember the last time he had actually screamed.  
  
  


But now he had a new moment to cherish.

  
  
  
  
**TBC**


End file.
